Cold Knot Row was a canny place
Though how named I haven’t a clue
It wore a happy, smiling face
As homely as a plate of stew.
On side of a burn it stood
On the outskirts of the town
The burn it flowed from Paddy’s Wood
Then carried on further down.
The gardens were full of flowers
And the birds sang in the trees
Where the Pickford’s chimney towers
— But no “modern amenities.”
But there was nothing to complain of
Where men came home to their
spouses
Nothing to be ashamed of
And a netty for every three houses.
But they pulled it down: unhappy day
And a tear runs down my face
Officials had the final say
Now it’s gone without a trace.

Tony Kelly, Crook